Dirty Jokes and Grins
by ElisetheChemist
Summary: Harleen Quinzel is a psychiatrist at Gotham was just recently assigned to the Joker's case after his last therapist wound up mutilated. She has admired him for some time, but now she is meeting him in the flesh. Join me on this journey as the good doctor ascends into Harley Quinn by her smart, sexy Mistah J. Rated M for sex, drugs and violence.
1. Chapter 1

Hey there! I am new to this genre but I just couldn't get these two out of my head. I started driving my best friend absolutely nuts and decided to take matters into my own hands and write what's been floating around in my head. I'd love feedback and your thoughts on the story.

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The clicking sound of smart heels on stainless steel floors alerted the guards to the doctor's incoming presence and began the protocol for unlocking the multi-layered security system. After a sizeable donation from Wayne Enterprises, the Asylum had received a few much-needed upgrades. Perhaps this is why a few notorious prisoners had extended their stay as of late. Escaping was certainly not easy anymore, and it required a much more intimate view of the facility but more importantly, the staff. The weakest point of any organization would always be the people within.

A buzzer sounded as the outer lock allowed her inside, stepping in a preview chamber where she showed her badge to the guard. Even though she had known this man for months now, he still scrutinized both her face and the picture of her ID. She sighed, slightly irritated by this constant, daily charade, and then rushed through the secondary door when it finally opened. Administration was located on the ground floor, and she walked through the fluorescent lit hallways past a series of doors with name placards which held no meaning.

She stopped at the last door on the right, straightening the "Dr. Quinzel" plate as she unlocked the handle. Inside, she had very few items pertaining to herself or her personal life. Whether or not that was related to corporate paranoia or lack of a personal life, she could not decide. The space was small but comfortable with a single desk and a rolling, swivel chair. Much to her chagrin, the donation money did not go far enough to renovate the offices, so the wall paper was yellowed and the linoleum floors had worn out in places.

All in all, it was a typical psychiatrist office. No one went into this field for the money or the fame. Most of the doctors were just as crazy as the patients. Medicine tended to attract the type "A", borderline obnoxious know-it-all personality types who managed to find competition even in collaboration. Then, they split off into sub categories. The athletic types generally went into surgery. Bleeding hearts to pediatrics. Adrenaline junkies to emergency medicine. And finally, introverted geniuses to psychiatry. While the rest of the body was made up of a series of beautiful, cooperating parts each with a specific function that either could be fixed or not, the brain was a mystery.

The chemistry behind the brain was so wildly unknown. Years had past and scientists still cannot agree on the biochemical origin of alzheimer's disease. Add in abstract concepts like thought, memory and individuality and you have a multi-dimensional rubik's cube of ambiguity where solutions were variable depending on the individual. Day to day psychiatrists dealt mostly with depression, anxiety and slightly more easily diagnosed illnesses, but the truly crazy doctors handled disease which affected a minute subset of mankind.

You don't choose this field because you want to help people - not really. A good psychiatrist knows this to be true; an honest one would tell you they were crazy too. Though competing theories often bounced around, perhaps the most true of all boiled down to a fundamental precept of biology: everyone was out for themselves. Sure, you could see volunteers at the soup kitchen or a samartin tossing a dime into a beggar's cup, but all of those actions served mostly to make the giver feel good - to atone for a sin or repair an aberration of character.

Dr. Quinzel chose this field because she "wanted to help people". That was what she put on her resume anyway. Honesty in this field would only get your license suspended and a thorough review by the AMA. But in her innermost secret thoughts, she knew she was here because she sought the cure for her own instability by treating the wildest of cases. She could keep telling herself she was sane when comparing herself to infamous criminal sociopaths.

Another reason she chose this job was because dealing with the mundane cases sounded like torture. Bless your doctors when you go in and they diagnose you with a cold and give you a box of tissues. Then, do yourself a favor and pick them up yourself next time.

With a creak, she spun around in her chair and booted up the ancient computer sitting below her desk. The hard drive made a creaking noise, indicating its displeasure with living, and she waited the solid three minute it took to load into Windows something or other and open their medical and filing database program. Once it was finally working, she opened her schedule and hummed thoughtfully, grabbing patient files and spending her morning studying.

A cup of tea was her only friend at this hour, and it wasn't until many hours later that a knock on her door pulled her from the depths of a case file.

"Oh! Dr. Marshall," she said, gesturing for the him to come in. "What can I do for you?"

After years of hiding her inner city accent in medical school, she'd gotten quite good. Now, she sounded downright proper - now there's a laugh. Dr. Marshall on the other hand was a devilish climber of the social ladder. His haircut was flawless and each nail was perfectly manicured in a way that screamed money and class. He was a different type entirely. Dr. Marshall was the kind of man who put himself in the worst situations for fame and credibility. Simply being a rich white man didn't cut it anymore. For him, status was gained through his "selfless" contributions to Gotham's worst.

In other words, he was a bureaucrat boasting a medical license. Dr. Quinzel suppressed her expression of distaste.

" _Harleen_ , you don't have to be so formal," he replied, stepping into her office and taking a seat across from her desk. The room was small enough that she would have to leap out over his head; which, she could do by the way. Also, she was Dr. Quinzel.

"Just who I am," she replied with a tight smile. That was a lie, but it was more appropriate to say that than "I have no interest in being on first name basis with you."

He smiled, seeming to get the idea but unwilling to let it waver his determination. "There is something you can do for me, actually," he said. "As you know, I have been treating this institution's most heinous criminals personally, but I will be away for a conference. It's of vital importance that their care is continued."

Could this man be more egotistical? Wait, no. He probably could.

"I would like for you to shadow my sessions for the next two weeks and then take over for me while I am away," Dr. Marshall said to the point.

This would more than double her work load. Internally she groaned, but part of her was excited to work with these characters. Honestly, she hoped she could get a publication out of them while he was away. Dr. Marshall was such a terrible doctor that he probably wasn't helping them at all.

"I would be glad to," she agreed with a smile.

"Good, then we begin in an hour. I'll meet you on the sixth floor."

The sixth floor. The one at the top. It had its own security and special access only (again, thanks Bruce Wayne). Inside were some of the worst of the worst. These criminals knew no rhyme nor reason and they were here mainly because they would destroy a normal prison system. No one actually believed they could be healed, especially not their clown prince.

 _The Joker._

He was the only man on file with a moniker instead of a name - because no one knew it. Even the Batman, who was responsible for his incarceration, was clueless when it came to who this prisoner actually was. Rumors followed him around like the plague in the middle ages, making it impossible to separate fact from fiction, but she figured that was exactly how he wanted it. The shroud of lies was a perfect smoke screen for him, letting his reputation precede his dealings which, for him, often resulted in an ideal outcome. Even his appearance was a lie. The white, pale skin, tattoos and face full of makeup served to hide the truth beneath.

Granted, his body was a bit of a wreck. A beautiful wreck, but a wreck nonetheless. In his rage, Batman had obliterated his teeth. The picture sitting in the Joker's file was of him grinning widely with silver caps, crudely done. Whatever dentist had performed this operation had shaky hands. Harleen mused that it made him fit in a bit more with his "crowd" and it matched the series of tattoos that he had gotten over the years. She wondered what made him choose which ones and where...

An hour had past and she made her way to the sixth floor, meeting Dr. Marshall after another set of swipe access doors. The lights here were dimmed to simulate peace and nighttime, but it was creepy. Other floors were full of noise and talking, but this hall was dead silent. Only the drip of condensation from plumbing broke the deafening silence, and she gripped her folder a little more tightly.

Exactly nineteen steps in and they arrived at his cell. The guards had prepped him ten minutes earlier with a straight jacket and restraints, so Dr. Marshall strode right in without hesitation. Harleen, on the other hand, crept into the room like a wolf out of her territory. Her keen, blue eyes scanned the room before settling on their patient.

His cherry lips were askew and his eyes stared vacantly at a wall beyond. The green color of his hair seemed dull beneath the light, and it was mussed on one side from sleep. It bothered her, and she found herself itching to tuck it back into place. Everything else about him was so flawlessly put together that his hair should be too.

His presence was dulled. The electric, magnetic and radiant aura she had experienced once before in her life (story for another time) was reduced to a faint murmur. She felt her heart sink in her chest.

"Hello Joker," Dr. Marshall began, sitting in a chair and furrowing his brows with the face, dime-store empathetic expression worn by all fake assholes who pretended to care. Harleen rolled her eyes from behind him, sitting down and crossing her long legs.

The Joker said nothing at all. He didn't even move.

For thirty solid minutes, there was no response. Harleen peeked over his shoulder and saw that he had this brilliantly insane man on enough drugs to take down a horse.

Noticing her peeking, Dr. Marshall frowned. "I started at normal, human dosages but his body burned through them faster than I expected," he explained.

Harleen nodded and then the two of them stood.

To see him reduced to this… was a crime in itself. This was like putting Stephen Hawking in a pre-school or Richard Dawkins in a church. All his brilliance was suppressed by mind numbing drugs, and she knew the first thing she would do when his case belonged to her. She couldn't learn from his silence nor could she heal him if he could not tell her his symptoms.

Dr. Marshall exited first, and she looked back at him once more.

He _winked._

The motherfucker actually winked at her. Light danced behind his bright blue eyes with such intelligence and mischief that her heart actually stopped for a brief moment. Her breath caught, a slight hissing sound releasing from her lips when he pursed his lips and mouthed "ssshhhh" in her direction. All of that energy surrounding him started to spark and crack. It was only a fraction of what he was capable, but she felt it in her bones anyway. Very slowly, she nodded before feigning picking up her pen from the floor to escape Dr. Marshall's scrutiny, and then she gracefully walked out the door. Her head whipped around immediately to find him staring at the wall again.

Had she imagined it?


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you SO much you guys for the reviews! I really appreciate it. I wanted to go ahead and get this chapter out before I go to Quantum mechanics in 30 minutes. Ugh. The life of a PhD student. I have some time, so I'll try to have another chapter out tonight or tomorrow. My goal is to Stephan King you guy's asses with some hot, batshit insane, scary stuff! Let me know what you think. - **If you guys have any requests of stuff you want to see or dirty/inappropriate/heart attack your grandmum jokes, leave it in a review! I'll do my best to include ;)**

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The next two weeks went by in a blue of monotony. Getting to treat the Joker were the highlights, even if he didn't respond to any manner of conversation or stimulation. The challenge, however, was dealing with being in prolonged, close proximity to Dr. Marshall. He was a singularly dislikable individual who took the word "no" as an indication of "keep trying". No matter how many times she turned down his request to grab a drink after work or dinner on the weekends, he kept trying and in increasingly more misogynistic ways.

"Methinks she doth protest too much," he said one day with a grin.

Fuck Shakespeare for writing that line! What was intended to be an artful expression of a blushing lady was now being used by every asshole to support their delusional beliefs that girls were somehow still interested. Harleen simply smiled in response, having to walk a careful and precarious line between professionalism toward her boss and her stronger desire to punch him in his self-righteous, priggish face.

The exchange occurred directly outside of the Joker's cell, but he seemed not to notice - or he was pretending he didn't notice. She couldn't be sure. Every now and then, she thought she saw hints of emotional and vibrancy flash across his handsome, angular feature, but it was gone in a blink. He hadn't winked at her again either, much to her disappointment, but even now as she was stuck in this awkward exchange, she thought she saw a fist flex beneath the arm of his straight jacket.

"No, I just don't want to go out with you," she replied firmly, thanking the universe that he was leaving tomorrow morning for his fancy conference. Ironically, he was presenting his "research" on the Joker. She wasn't sure what research could be done a subject too drugged up to respond, but she wasn't about to get into another conversation with this fucking hack.

Everyone had their vices. Harleen's was violence. She was reactionary at times, preferring to solve her problems with force instead of conversation. Trying to change someone's mind was nearly impossible; it required time and effort she didn't care to impart on strangers or healthy people who deluded themselves into thinking they were important. It was much easier to get them to shut up or stop with a well placed kick to the groin or a fist to the throat. Doubled over in pain, they couldn't talk! Win-win.

Unfortunately, Marshall was still her boss, so instead, she pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, pushing her thick, dark glasses up onto her neat, blonde hair. She took a deep, calming breath and then checked her watch, trying to find some other excuse to get out of this cramped, dark hallway and into a room with a criminal psychopath. Oh the irony.

"We're late already," she said, letting herself into the cell and placing herself on the secondary seat again.

Marshall followed and sat down, opening his notes and starting their final (for the time being) session as he always did. "Hello Joker, how are you today?" he asked.

What a trite way to start a conversation. The only real response to that question was "fine, how are you?". She rolled her eyes again and made a small notation, angrily scribbling about Marshall until the rustling of fabric caught her by surprise. Harleen snapped her gaze up, seeing the Joker actually turn away from his spot on the wall, bright, mad blue eyes settling on Marshall with thinly veiled vehemence and dislike.

Her heart was hammering in her chest. Only the Joker could simply look at you and make you feel the walls closing in and death approaching swiftly on his pale horse. Even Marshall seemed to be squirming in his seat, wiggling beneath the weight of the Joker's stare.

Gaze unwavering and focus undeterred, the Joker ran his tongue over his silver teeth and grinned - an expression of pure madness. He made a clicking sound of a round being chambered in a gun with his tongue against the roof of his mouth and followed the horror with a whispered "bang".

The silence that lingered was screaming, and her heart beat so hard that she could hear it pump in her ears. Even her hand shook, her pen making dots and dashes on her paper. She knew what he meant. That was a promise. Marshall was a walking dead man, and he knew it. Instantly, he scrambled to his feet and marched out of the cell with a straight spine of compensation, yelling at the orderlies to get him more drugs.

Harleen simply waited in the room, breathing and trembling as his attention flicked her way. She was pierced into her chair by his eyes, electricity and power sparking between them as he bore down on her with the mass of his aura. He wasn't even touching her and she could feel him on her skin, his touch working its way up to her throat to thin her breathing in a delicious way.

"Dooooctor Quinzeeeeellll," he drawled lazily, clearly reading the name on her badge.

"Y-yes?" she asked, eyes quickly darting to her exit which was blocked by Marshall's unattractive backside still waiting for the drugs.

"Look at me," he whispered, calling her attention back immediately. She obeyed without hesitation, knowing that his whispered demand was not a request and would have consequences for her disobedience.

"Wanna hear a joke?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward over the table with his pale lips pulled back from his silver teeth. He wasn't smiling; he was baring them like a hyena.

"Uh, sh-sure, mister," she said, her true accent making an appearance.

He cocked his head to the side like a curious dog and giggled, obviously liking this new development. "What's the difference… between your job and a dead prostitute?" he asked, words still elongated and drawn out but still spoken in an amused, sing-song tone.

Harleen wanted to snort in laughter, but she was still scared, biting her full bottom lip as a grin tugged at the corners of her lips. "I dunno, tell me," she replied, hearing Marshall go out into the hall, leaving them alone in the room together.

"Your job still sucks," he said brightly, quickly, and then devolved into a fit of hysterical laughter, twisting and turning in his straight jacket.

Even Harleen had to chuckle a little, his laughter as infectious as his grin, drawing her to mirror his actions. The joke was so appropriately inappropriate. Right now? Her job did suck. Marshall sucked. And she continued to giggle a little, the joke just getting funnier and funnier the more she thought about how apt it really was. Joker was a genius. Brilliant and completely inappropriate, and it was a breath of fresh air compared to the egg-shell balancing act of fake smiles in the "real world".

"Hah hah hah," she replied. "You're right. My job does suck, but soon it'll get interesting."

The Joker raised a non-existant brow and leaned forward, staring with those vast, chasm blue eyes in complete and utter focus. He seemed to say "do go on" with his entire body, a perfect silent actor on his very own stage. She took his cues in stride, like a dance of sorts.

"Dr. Marshall is attending a conference, so I will be your doctor for the next month," she explained, glad to get this chance to set up a rapport with him without Marshall interfering. Harleen leaned on the table with her forearms resting on the metal, matching him stride for stride now that the ice was broken and she had found her confidence beneath the fear. That's not to say she wasn't afraid; she was too smart to not be afraid. But, she was reading to press into the boundaries he would set for therapy.

The Joker grinned again. "I'd shake your hand, doc, but I'm a little tied up right now," he chuckled. "My dear, dear doctor Quinzeeeell. Do you mind if I call you Harleen? Such a pretty name. _Pretty, pretty, pretty…_ " he muttered clearly, twisting in his seat a little to lean forward as well with his whole body.

"Harleen is fine," she agreed. Establishing a comfortable, first name basis relationship would be good for therapy.

"No, no, no, no, no, no... _NO._ " he trailed, giggling as his eyes sparkled in delight. "Bear with me." He leaned back in his chair again, blinking and giving her a thorough once over. The doctor was quiet - what a good, good girl, hanging on his every word. "Harleeeeen QUINzel… Harleee Quin… _Harlequin_ … Haaaarrlleyyyy Quinn…." he paused, grinning again and squealing in delight. "How about Harley? The girl beneath the doctor. The little monster with the inner city voice and dare I say… hidden… talents?"

Harleen hung on his every word with rapt attention, fascinated at how he took her name and twisted into a clown-like character fit within his universe. He was inviting her in and opening the door, giving her an identity which she could use to relate, and she felt her chest tighten in humility at this singular opportunity. "A few hidden talents, and I'll gladly be your Harley," she replied, smiling. The unspoken addition to her agreement was that she would be Harley in his sessions, to get into his head. Little did she know she was being pulled into a mirror maze where they looked at each other and saw themselves reflected right back.

"My Harley…" he murmured, gaze softening ever so softly. The way he spoke, with such reverence and affection, she couldn't help but think to those smutty romance novels she read, wanting someone to give her such undying love.

A tight smile met his words as she guarded herself again. Orderlies flooded the room and jabbed his neck with a needle. The murderous expression turned back to Dr. Marshall who followed the burly assistants in with his tie askew and hair mussed from nervous fingers. "Deaaaaaddddd man waaaalkkkinnngggg…" Those were the last words the Joker spoke before falling into chemically induced unconsciousness.

The chill in the room returned, and she looked up at Marshall who was beginning to sweat. "Be careful, Harleen. I'll see you when I get back." Then, like the coward he was, the doctor sped from the room and left. She watched from the window of the Joker's cell as he got into his shiny black Audi and drove away.

Now left alone with the unconscious Joker, she carefully removed his straight jacket, admiring the weight and strength of his body. He was thin but in a fit way. His muscles were like those of a deer - springy sinews bunched and ready for speed. Gently, she rested him back in his chair, knowing she had no chance of carrying him to the bed. J had to have at least fifty pounds or more on her and about a foot of height.

Careful fingers finally pushed his hair back into place and then left the cell, a smile getting wider and wider on her lips as she continued down the hallway to the security gates. A resounding beep marked her exit, and she took the elevator to the ground floor and her office. There, she went to her computer and started making serious changes to the Joker's regimen. First, she took him off all anti-psychotics and other drugs and improved the dietary content of his meals. Once those commands were in the system, she looked at her other cases and put a few of them onto interns.

Then, she turned out the light and went home, driving a ratty corolla all the way to her meager apartment in a dank complex. It wasn't that she didn't make enough money to live somewhere better; she could, if she wanted. But, this was one of her little secrets. The apartment on the top floor of this building was her safe haven - a sanctuary where she could observe the streets below and feel connected to the heart of Gotham. She put a kettle on the stove for tea and dropped onto her old couch, closing her eyes and recalling the last time she had seen the Joker.

That story for another time? It's now.


	3. Chapter 3

You guys are so fantastic and supportive! I have read your reviews and am pleased to offer you a third chapter. I've been working on it throughout the day, but I unfortunately didn't get done with work until late. Today, I learned all about digital to analog and time to digital converters, multi-channel plates, and I have a ton of reading to do. My degree is in chemistry, but I find myself in a sea of electrical engineering. So please forgive the typos and PM me if you find any! I wrote this with every intention of proof reading but it's late and I really want to get this out to you guys today.

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 _I was twenty one and in my first year of medical school - Gotham's medical school. It was well rated but suffered in relation to the money-filled wonder of Metropolis multiple institutions. I didn't care, though. The experience I would get in the grittier, industrial city was far more than any of those elite fools across the bay, and I knew that I would be a better doctor than most of them combined. See, medicine isn't about the degree or even your grades. True medical prowess was the culmination of your successes, failures and experiences._

 _I would deal with gunshot wounds, stabbings, limb removal, and other crime related horrors and those creeps in Metropolis would be bending over to help a middle aged woman with her leaking breast implant. Maybe I was being biased (I certainly was), but I didn't care. Even if no one admitted it aloud, it was true._

 _The sky was gray that evening as I glanced down at my phone, frowning as the balance of my student loans increased with this semester's tuition. In case you didn't know, medical students pay tuition and we work 80 hour weeks, meaning we can't take additional employment. Next time you see your doctor, be nice. I guarantee you they are paying off loans and doing their best to stay afloat._

 _My pink tennis shoes splashed through water gathered in deep potholes in the road, and all was silent until it suddenly wasn't._

 _The sky seemed to split with a loud boom and I saw bright flames erupt a building right next to me. I gasped and jumped, stumbling into a nearby wall and nearly stepped on a rat that squealed and ran away. My eyes were wide as saucers as I heard engines racing through the streets and horrified screams in their wake. I ran toward the scene, seeing what could only be described as apocalyptic._

 _People were covered in dust except for tear streaks streaming down their faces. A few were screaming, holding onto broken limbs or gunshot wounds. There was a woman holding her eyeball in her hand, screaming and crying as she was forced to acknowledge her deformity. Blood, beautiful crimson, slid through fingers and ran with water from a busted pipe down the city drains._

 _For a moment, I could do nothing. I stood there, struck by the brutality when I should have been rushing to their aide and utilizing my medical knowledge. Instead I was frozen in time, doomed to watch people pour out of the half-destroyed building in sobbing droves. Ash fell from the sky, and I coughed, finding my center and jogging toward the injured people._

 _They were like zombies, looking at me like I wasn't really there and they had no idea what was happening. I grabbed my flashlight and checked for brain injuries, separating those in critical condition from those who could probably go home. For the most part, my human categories stayed where they were supposed to, and the ambulances I called for arrived minutes later._

 _I was breathing hard, bending over my knees from running and I looked up just as the thundering roar of engines grew increasingly louder. A lime green car went speeding and drifted with precision, back wheels locking as the car spun around to face the black, incoming demon of a vehicle. All of my organized patients started running, but at least the critical ones had already been picked up from the emergency vehicles._

 _I started to sprint toward a nearby building, bullets flying past in a deafening whir as I passed behind the green car which was getting pelted relentlessly. A wild laugh made me pause, and I growled in pain as a shell when zooming past my legs, grazing the backside of my calf. I was lucky. So fucking lucky._

 _The driver of the green car snapped open the door and waved something white - those looked like men's underwear? I limp-ran to a shadowy area behind stairs, trying not to be seen as I watched the events unfold._

" _Don't shoot!" The driver laughed madly, peeking his head up from behind the vehicle. That's when I recognized him as the Joker. My heart stopped. He was charismatic and handsome with perfectly white, straight teeth and a cheshire cat grin._

" _Batsy, Basty, Bastsy," he purred, stepping out in front of his car and bowing deeply at the waist. His purple tail coat was pristine and the bowtie was perfectly tied. Even his two-tone oxfords had a very OCD shine to them. "Thank you for your help. I can always count on you to provide an explosive distraction. Guns blazing. All… " he gestured with his hand, "... you know, prince of darkness." The Joker stuck two fingers behind his head to mimic the Batman's mask and drew his arm over his face like a vampire._

 _Some sort of hood capsule opened, revealing the Batman who approached the Joker without hesitation. "Where's the money, clown?" he demanded. His voice modulator made him sound impossibly deep._

 _The Joker grinned, the expression savage. "Oh, here and there and everywhere!" he exclaimed. "Since when did you care about the money, Bats?" He looked thoroughly concerned for a moment. "You haven't sold out have you?"_

 _Batman got too close and the Joker pulled a gun, leveling it at Batman's chest._

" _The money belongs to the people of Gotham. Innocent lives were taken for your greed. It's time to end this!"_

 _With a sputtering laugh, he bent over his knees, the gun waving carelessly around his head. "The people? What money is left after the banks crashed? All I see are big, ugly board members getting rich while they abuse the money entrusted to them. What I have stolen is from them, not the joe-blow people. See… their money is insured. Bruce Wayne's money? Is not. It can poof!" The Joker grinned making little popping motions with his hands. He may not have known he had an audience, but this was still his stage._

" _Wanna hear a joke?" he asked, still grinning and now standing up perfectly straight._

" _Not particularly," Batman answered, slowly inching closer and closer._

" _Batman **helps** the people of Gotham." _

_A wicked snarl curled the Joker's lips, and he fired three rounds from his gun, each reflecting off of the Bat's armor. I put my hands over my ears and cowered in the corner, watching as the Batman assaulted the clown and threw him around like a ragdoll. The Batman didn't just disarm and disable this psychopath; he took pleasure in knocking him down step after step until the Joker was breathless and bleeding, pulling his body up from the ground by rigid bones._

 _The force was excessive. The violence was unnecessary. Batman was drawing out this torture on purpose to feed a flaw in his own system._

 _I couldn't just stand there anymore, so I looked around me, finding a gun. I'd never held one before, but I knew the gist. My shaking fingers found the safety and flipped it off, aiming and taking a deep breath. I squeezed my fingers around the trigger, firing more rounds than I intended directly in Batman's direction. He let the Joker go and backed away long enough for the clown to make an escape._

 _To this day, I am not sure if he knew it was me. I was hiding in the shadows, looking exhausted, but I had found myself on Batman's shit list after that. He had yelled at me, and I had yelled back, calling him an abusive, sick fuck - sicker even than the Joker. What kind of asshole beats on the mentally ill? Brands their victims?_

 _And yet they call him a hero._

* * *

Over the next few days, she watched the Joker wake up from his chemically induced hibernation. The long, drawling speech turned into witty, eloquent (but still dramatic) sentences. The slow, lethargic movements were now quick, faster than she thought humanly possible. His senses were heightened, instincts clear, and as she watched him change, she wondered how anyone could ever keep him drugged up.

Sure, he was absolutely batshit insane - like top of a cave of the wilderness with millions of bats insane. But, he was brilliant. That phrase that intelligence is the other side of the coin of madness rang a bell, and she wrote that down in her notes as she spoke with him on the third day of his detox. She asked him if he wanted to be weaned off or go cold turkey, but he was adamant about getting clean.

Even now as she stared at him, she could see the benzos leak out his system in sweat. His hair glistened from it - bright green and still perfectly combed back. His hands jittered from the antipsychotic detox, but he somehow managed to not look sickly. He looked stronger than ever, presence looming in a cloud of power that cloaked his every word and every feature.

Free from the confines of his straight jacket, he spoke with his hands, gesturing like a stage actor in perfect time with his vibrant expressions and body language. "My _dear_ Harley," he began their session as she flipped her notebook to a new page.

"Yes?" she asked, hiding her accent out of habit.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chastised, wiggling his index finger at her. "No hiding from me, Harley. We can't have that. How am I supposed to be honest with you if you can't be honest with me?" He raised a bare brow, indicating that he was right and he knew it.

"That's true. All right. What am I to call ya?" she asked, having to steadily slip back into her true, inner city self.

He smiled. "Mister J," he answered simply. "Perhaps when we get to know each other better, we can drop such formalities. We are professionals, after all."

Harley smiled. "Oh? What kind of professional are ya?" she asked, glad to serve as his mirror in this moment and send questions back in his direction from the statements he volunteered. Therapy worked better when the therapist was simply a blank slate on which to reflect back the patient. Often, psychiatry was about revealing the truth of self, and there was no better way to know yourself than to speak to yourself honestly. That was what she had to do now - be the Joker so that he could face himself.

"Mmmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "I am an entrepreneur. _Innovator._ "

"What kinda things do ya make?"

"Oh, all kinds of things. Corrosives, batteries, drugs, weapons, and the list continues. If I need it or want it, I make it. Mold it from nothing." His words held deep meaning, weight, and he seemed to focus on her intently for a few seconds longer than usual. "My turn."

"Your turn?"

"Did I stutter?" he demanded suddenly, the playfulness disappearing for seconds. Just as quickly as it came, the anger disappeared beneath his mask - one of many. "So, **pumpkin** , dating anyone?"

"That's not relevant," she said, drawing a line in the sand and marking a boundary. A boundary he danced over and swept away.

"I need to know that you won't abandon me - you know, have two point five kids and retire early, _wasting_ away your entire medical career," he pretended to sigh heavily, waving his hand in the air as if such an idea was depressing folly.

"Cut the **bullshit** , mistah J. You and I both know that you weren't abandoned. I'm not stupid. I studied you and your every story, even though they change faster than teenage girl changes clothes. When you're honest with me, I'll be honest with you," she said, standing up from her chair and then walking toward the door.

He growled, the sound audible, vibrating in his chest. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult me," he snarled, enunciating every word harshly. "Consider it a gift, sweetie."

Just as she reached the door handle and turned the knob, he spoke again from behind her. His voice whispered in her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The wind from his breath moved the loose pieces of hair around her face, and a chill crawled up her spine, making her freeze despite her every instinct screaming at her to run.

 _How did he move so fast?_

"Two can play this game. Let's dance, honey."

He stood to full height, leaning down to place a terrifying kiss on the top of her head, the heat from his lips making her skin break out in goose bumps. The scariest part? She liked it. Every, single, heart racing moment.

* * *

 _I wanted her._

 _Sure, she was attractive in that blonde haired, blue eyed all American girl kind of way - not that I paid much attention to women. Something about their irrationality and screaming was grating. That's saying something. I am chaos. Let this be a lesson to you, audience in my head. Don't be an irrational bitch._

 _Yes, I was honest enough to admit that I would fuck her if given the chance. She was a mix of rational and emotional that I could tolerate for long enough to get off. But her presence was a distraction as I pushed through my drug-slowed thoughts for my means of escape. To think they could keep me here was delusional; I was a passerby._

 _Honestly, I stayed to give Batsy a sense of false security - a reprieve from my mayhem that was long enough to get some sleep but not long enough to relax. I was in this game until the end, toying with his poor little righteous brain and prodding around at his psyche until he snapped._

 _He was my other half. The piece of me that was missing ever since I was born. My antithesis. My perfect opposite in every, beautiful way. I had been waiting for him my whole, dull and boring life._

 _He MADE me._

 _And LEFT me._

 _Dear Doctor Frankenstein, how you wounded me! How is a poor creature to learn about the world except to watch the cruelty, poverty and wickedness from the tower where you left me to die?_

 _But I thank him, and I repay him in kind for his heresy. For breaking all laws of nature and birthing from the acids of this world a demon child to bring smiles and laughter to this freakshow. You know how they say that you make your own demons? Well… I know exactly what I am and what I have to do. Fate was kind to me. It turned me from fool to joker. From laughing stock to clown. From peon into a god!_

' _Tis better to reign in hell than serve in heaven, so they say._

 _Such were the addled thoughts of a man on the mixture of drugs they dosed me with, but much to my utter surprise, the little doctor decided to let me come back to life. While she may have been a passing fantasy to dull the mind numbing monotony of having to listen to that stupid, blue blooded eunuch at first (he's dead, by the way), she was now my sole focus and one that I did not find particularly unpleasant._

 _In fact, I was rather growing to like her. Little Harlequin. My little clown in the making._

 _She was smart, much smarter than I initially gave her credit for, and for that you have my sincerest apologies. Like a chipped prism, she shimmered from different facets, a culmination of a past I was itching to know, and she stood upon the precipice of my mind, dancing like a good little girl as I mulled over my plans._

 _You see, at this point, I was willing to figure her out, solve her like an equation, and let her live. Perhaps when I was inevitably brought back here, I would see her again. I'm a bit of a masochist you see! (Don't laugh). I can make myself want for something and suffer the delayed gratification… sometimes._

 _It wasn't until my dear, beautiful little Harley insulted me (teenage girl, really?) and refused to answer my question that I realized that I didn't just want her in my life. I needed her. No one stood up to me. No one dared challenge my authority except for this insignificant, tiny, blonde… thing. Now, now, that's not to say that I would tolerate such behavior in the future. Rest assured that I would swiftly make her place at my side known, but my pumpkin didn't know the rules yet._

 _I could be lenient. I wasn't insane._

 _HAHAHAHA._

 _Now, she was mine. Every breath she drew was for me and every naughty thought would feature my name in bright, shiny lights. We would play this game and we would dance. I would give myself to her and her to me until my desires were hers and she would do anything for me._

 _Don't believe me?_

 _Just watch._

 _My little Harley Quinn is a special girl._

 _I just have to show her how much._

* * *

Joker POV! Let me know what you think. TO my lovely reviewer who was concerned about their romance having the horror aspect, I do intend to follow the original (and 52) comics somewhat (oh, and the Arkham Asylum: Origins game) and have it be a mutually violent one, but in a dark romance sort of way. Just trust me when I say that the Joker will calm his tits (I suffer for saying this, believe me) over time and learn more and more that he didn't just weasel into Harley's head, but she also burrowed her way into his. Since I want to give this story good pacing, it'll happen over time, so I hope you enjoy this tenuous stage as much as I do!

Thank you again, for your thoughts. I look forward to more! And to your dirty/inappropriate jokes :D feel free to leave them in reviews.


	4. Chapter 4

_Breaking news. The body of Dr. James Marshall was found this morning on the corner of 18th and 3rd. He was strung upside to a light post with the words "bang bang bang" tattooed crudely across his whole torso. Identification was challenging given that his teeth were individually removed. They still have not been located. His lips were dissected and sewn into a permanent smile. The images we are now about to show you are graphic. Viewer discretion is advised._

Harley leaned forward into her television, jaw dropping open as she saw the photos of her boss brutally murdered and hanging for all to see. He was a message, a promise. This was a warning to all in the Asylum that the Joker kept his promises, but it was also a show of force. No matter where he was or how drugged up, he could still be responsible for chaos and mayhem.

And she was supposed to _see_ him today.

Half of her food forgotten, the doctor dressed and went to work after the long weekend. She had the Joker had left their last session on an argument of sort. Harley had put her foot down, demanding respect and distance in therapy, and the Joker had ignored all of her efforts. Their fight for control would be comical if it wasn't life and death with a psychopath.

Her strategy had to be rethought.

Conventional methods and personal anonymity would have to be sacrificed in order to make any headway, she realized. He was far too smart and an even match to let her get away with controlling the direction of his therapy. Besides, even if he knew her, she could still serve as his mirror. The more he opened up, the more she could get inside his head and reflect him back at himself. If that required her to let him know that she was woefully single and a bit of a thrill seeker, so be it.

Rain had started to come down, flooding the streets as she parked her car and ran from the lot into the asylum. She shook off the rain and walked through the old, yellowing first floor hallway to her equally dismal office. Harley took out the only key to her door and shoved it on the lock, but she didn't need to. The door was unlocked.

It swung open on creaky hinges, and she stood, horrified in the frame as she stared at a perfect row of upper, human teeth balanced in the shape of a smile on her desk. Perfectly displayed beside the grotesque gift were a bouquet of beautiful, red roses in water. Harley scrunched up her face in disgust as she inched toward her desk, grabbing the note attached to the flowers.

 _"Too weak for, for all her heart's endeavor,_

 _To set its struggling passion free_

 _From pride, and vainer ties dissever,_

 _And give herself to me forever."_

 _Can't wait to see you soon, doc._

 _Mr. J_

Harley put a hand over her mouth as she read the note. It was written in perfect, eloquent scrawl with a fountain pen on expensive paper, and she knew then that he had someone, or many someone's inside on his payroll. Nowhere was safe from the Joker.

What disturbed her even more than that though was that she recognized the poem. Ignoring the teeth and roses, she sat down at her computer and pulled up an internet browser, typing in a line once it decided to load and seeing it pop up almost immediately. "Porphyria's Lover" by Robert Browning, and it wasn't a romantic poem.

 _"Porphyria worshipped me; surprise_

 _Made my heart swell, and still it grew"_

A chill worked its way up her spine as she finally looked at the smiling teeth on her desk, a mixture of pleasure at Dr. Marshall's absence and guilt over his death making her feel ill.

 _"In one long yellow string I wound_

 _Three times her little throat around,_

 _And strangled her. No pain felt she;_

 _I am quite sure she felt no pain."_

That's why she remembered the poem. Harley felt her heart racing, wondering if this was his promise to her. Would she end up in pieces on her own desk? Would he strangle her with her hair? She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to calm down the heavy beating of her heart. Shaking hands quickly closed the window and then she heard a knock on her door.

Panic set in, and what she did just then would define her actions from here on out. You know those moments? They are quick, but they are crossroads. They set you down a specific path, whether you know it or not. Both roads look treacherous, but one leads to salvation and the other to your grave.

Harley quickly snatched the teeth in a tissue and shoved them in a desk drawer along with his note, but she left the flowers. She hid the evidence.

"Come in!" she called.

One of her coworkers, a Doctor Sheridan, hurried inside with a newspaper tucked into her small hand. She was an older, shrewd woman, but this morning she looked entirely undone. "Have you heard? What happened to James?" she asked in quick, hushed tones.

"I thought I saw something on the news," she fielded the question, deflected from herself and any knowledge she may have.

Anne Sheridan sat down, tossing the paper her way. "They are saying the Joker did it, but he's in here! I reviewed the security footage from last night, and no one came or left except the guards on a shift change," she exclaimed. "We are under so much scrutiny now, and I have half a mind to declare the Joker unfit for therapy - leave him there to ro-"

"-No! I mean… Just, let me continue where James left off. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he antagonized the Joker. I saw it in his sessions," she explained.

Anne furrowed her brows. "You're sure of this?" she asked.

"Yes, and the drug records prove it. James would drug him up and then issue trite therapy. For a man as intelligent as Mista… As the Joker, he would take offense."

Anne nodded. "I can see that. How strange that James did not. Maybe he was a bad hire?" The older woman grumbled. "No use in over analyzing the past. If you are willing to accept the risk and continue treating the Joker, I will not stand in your way. But, you are to write up weekly reports about his progress because I do not want a repeat of this incident."

"Yes, of course," Harley agreed.

"These are nice. Who are they from?" Anne asked, suddenly noticing the dozen roses on her desk.

"Huh? Oh, I am not sure. No note. I guess I have a secret admirer," she replied, smiling in a way she hoped looked normal. She certainly didn't feel normal.

"Oh, young love." Anne smiled. "Don't let this place get in the way of your personal life, Harleen. You have a bright future."

Harley just nodded in agreement and then said her goodbyes, feeling the pit of guilt in her stomach grow. She knew exactly how that man in Poe's story felt now - the one who killed the old man and buried him beneath the floorboards? The man in that story had been haunted by the victim's beating heart, but she kept seeing human teeth laughing at her when she closed her eyes.

A quick glance at the clock told her that she had an appointment with the devil, and she grabbed her notebook before forcing a straight spine and going to the elevator. How funny now that as she was swept up to the sixth floor, she felt like she was descending into hell.

Harley arrived at his cell and then stepped inside, her expression a blank canvas. Only her hands betrayed her; they were still shaking. He was sitting in the metal chair that was welded to the floor, not bolted. Bolts could be removed and weaponized. Bright blue eyes settled on her with a predatory stare, lips curling up into a one-sided smirk.

"You look tired, doc-tor," he purred, leaning back into his chair and crossing his surprisingly well defined arms over his torso. "Long night? Did you get my present this morning?"

"I am sure the guards would be interested to find out how you smuggled notes out of your cell," she said tightly, still tore about how she felt regarding the entire thing. On the one hand, James would never harass her again, but on the other, he was not only dead, he was mutilated and tortured. The roses were beautiful and romantic, but the poem held a certain terror to it that she wasn't sure how to read.

"Assuming the guards weren't the ones who helped me," he replied flippantly. "So, what did you think?" he asked, bridging his thick fingers as his eyes tracked her movements. She was slow to take her seat today, but she did. Once her legs were crossed, she opened her notebook to an empty page and felt overwhelmed by the emptiness.

"About?" she asked.

"My gifts," he snapped, growling soon after and slamming his open palm down on the table to yank her attention back in his direction. The sound slapped and resonated like a gunshot. " **Pay attention, doctor."**

Harley jumped and looked up, seeing his "damaged" tattoo and a few others in a new light. "The roses are beautiful. I very much like those. The others… I…" she trailed off, at a loss for how to phrase her thoughts in a way that wouldn't insult him, but he seemed to understand.

"Ah, yes," he hummed thoughtfully. "The guilt will fade when you realize that it had to be done." He held up a single finger to silence her as she began to argue. "You see, when I make a promise, I follow through. Our dear doctor Marshall had been making unwanted advances on what was mine, drugging me into a coma and using me for his own fame; he was not a very good doctor, do you agree?"

"Well he wasn't, but - "

"Sshh. Now, you are a smart woman. Reason with me on this. Can you do that?" He asked, nodding his head and making sure that she nodded too. "Good, ah, such a good girl," he praised.

 _Why did that make her feel so good?_

"Now, with every time he refused your "no" and abused his patients, he earned his death. It was coming, and if not by me, then by someone else. If someone else had killed him, well, he'd be dead but you and I would not be avenged, you see? Then his death would be useless, a waste!" The Joker explained this all, and she took a deep breath, feeling herself starting to get a headache.

"You are rationalizing on the principle that death is a just punishment for being an asshole," she grumbled. "And I am not sure I can stand behind that one." Actually, she could… kinda. Depending on the asshole.

"What did you mean by the note you sent?" she asked, demanded. She lifted her blue eyes to his, uncertainty and upset clear on her normally professional expression, and the strength of it was enough to make the Joker take notice.

"My dear, you look positively unwell," he said, having the decency to feign a frown. "Tell **daddy** what's going on." He smiled briefly.

"The note, you quoted a poem," she said, feeling herself get angry that he was so cavalier about the threat made on her life. "And I know the whole thing, Mistah J. It's about a man who loves a girl and he kills her!" She shouts, breathing hard and trying to gain control over herself. "Are you going to kill me, Mistah J? Are my teeth going to be on someone else's desk?" She whispered her greatest fear to him, earnestly seeking the truth from his enigmatic face.

"Oh, my dear. That's what you're upset about?" he asked, as if it were nothing - just a big misunderstanding. "Harley, Harley, **baby** …" he murmured, standing up slowly from his chair, towering over her as he came to stand just behind where she was sitting. His two, massive, pale hands came to rest on either one of her shoulders and squeeze there until the tension started to melt away. "Now, now pumpkin, there's no reason to get all up in twist. See, poems can be interpreted many ways - like jokes. You can be offended, scared or hurt, or you can laugh and smile.

"Now the way I see it is that he set her free from the restraints and scorn of the world so they could be together. He loves her, watches her… is obsessed with her… He doesn't kill her. He sets her free. Don't you feel trapped, Harley?" he whispered, the deep, melodic tones of his voice lulling her ever slowly into relaxation. His hands worked wonders on her neck and shoulders until her pen dropped from her hand to the floor, forgotten.

"Yeah, kinda. I mean I can't talk like myself, and hafta fit in with the rich people who fund this place," she said, trying to think through the pleasure and adrenaline drain. She was so relieved that he wasn't planning on killing her, and now that she thought about it, the poem was romantic. If it was true and the man had set Porphyria free, then it was one of the most romantic things a man had ever sent her before.

"Oh, baby… I can set you free, you know," he promised, leaned down to whisper in her ear. "We can do it your way." For now. "Let's chit chat." The Joker grabbed her notebook and pen, stalking back to his chair where he sat and crossed his legs, mirroring how she always sat in her sessions.

Harley watched and chuckled in amusement, smiling. When was the last time someone had been this thoughtful? Tried to make her smile? She leaned forward onto her elbows, waiting patiently for him to start his 'session'.

"Tell me about your childhood," he said, scratching something down and then grinning widely. "That's how they always start, you know. All these doctors think that something in my past made me. Why can't they just accept that I am who I am?" _Oh what lies... he was made._

Harley chuckled. "Because you're a puzzle and you were shaped by something. People who haven't suffered don't have emerald hair, pale skin and tattoos yannow."

"Suffering is a part of life. I have embraced it and the chaos around me. When you do… it's like opening your eyes for the very first time. But enough of that. Your childhood? I want to know you, Harley. I want to know... _**Everything**_ …" he purred, grinning.

Harley told him about her childhood in the inner city of Gotham, in their tiny apartment. Her father had been a 9-5 store clerk and her mother was a nurse. Their schedules were varied and their relationship was strained, but they tried to make it work for her sake. She had no siblings and no friends and turned to books instead. Despite her poor upbringing, she had made exceptional grades and gotten scholarships to get to college early.

Everything was perfect until it wasn't. Her father had died, though she didn't go into the details with the Joker. Her mother followed soon after by suicide. Harley had always felt like she hadn't been enough for her mother; it was a pain that lingered with her. All during her story, the Joker was a perfect therapist, writing notes and letting her talk.

When she was done, she looked up at him with a marked gentleness, seeing him a little differently now. He could be caring and gentle, and she didn't blame him at all for not giving it to everyone else.

"My darling Harley, our time has run out for today," he hummed, closing her notebook and handing it and the pen back to her. "I look forward to tomorrow."

Harley nodded and left his cell, awkward and unsure of how to thank him, but he didn't seem to mine. She opened the page and there, in the very center of the page were the words **_"And yet God has not said a word!"_**

* * *

HUGE shout out to my best friend for finding me this poem. Robert Browning is one creepy dude. Joker POV to come in the next chapter! This one got much longer than I expected. As always, please review and let me know what you think!

EDIT: to the person concerned about the gymnastics background I haven't forgotten ;) saving that for later


	5. Chapter 5

_I sat in my cell with handfuls of reports and documents, perusing each one with a careful eye. My little pumpkin has been lying by omission, it seems. See? See here? This page says that she won a state medal for an acrobatics competition. And this one? This one says that she was a high school all star in softball. When I told her to tell me everything, I meant_ _ **everything**_ _. You heard me say it, yes? You heard me command her to tell me everything. Granted, our time had been pressed, so I was not as angry as I could be._

 _I am a rational man, am I not? My little pumpkin still doesn't entirely know the rules, and the sessions were purposefully short. I could be lenient - for now._

 _Though, I didn't want to be. Every muscle and tendon in my hand itched to wrap around her white, elegant throat and squeeze. I wanted to feel the way the muscles in her jaw clenched and unclenched as she tried to breathe, unable to focus on anything or anyone else but me. No distractions. No lies. As she gasped for life, I would be the one to grant it to her, mercifully. She would see that I am a just and righteous master._

 _I flexed my fist and then ran a pen rhythmically over and between my fingers, sitting on the piss poor excuse for a bed and holding up the papers to my face. Every additional page was damning to my little Harley. She hadn't even been honest about the circumstances surrounding her father's death for fuck's sake. Her phrasing had lead me to believe that he had died of natural causes._

 _That was so far from the truth that she couldn't even see me dance from across the ocean of her_ _ **dishonesty.**_ _Now, I needed to be Moses and part the sea. It was Moses who did that, right? Forgive me, I haven't been to church… in well… mmmm… since the last time I blew one up._

 _Damn._

 _Her words had been_ _ **GENERIC**_ _! Scripted! I vacillated between murderous and understanding, grinning, growling and laughing as I finished the documents completed for me by a one Mr. Frost. He had been stalking her while I am woefully stuck inside this madhouse, and his insight was invaluable._

 _For example. Did you know that our dear little Harley hid the teeth in the basement of her house? She didn't turn them into her superiors. She didn't call the police. No… my sweet little lamb hid them like a child caught stealing, and that made me so…_ _ **mmmm**_ … _proud. It meant that I was right about her and her secrets. What I saw behind the mask forced upon her by society was very real and deep down, she wanted to break free from her restraints and cause untold mayhem upon the hypocritical fat cats._

 _How could you see that in her eyes, you ask? You're not a meta-human with x-ray vision? Superman - what an insufferable Gary Stue. I do not concern myself with the gifted elite; they have absolutely no sense of humor. (Seriously, try telling a joke to the alien.) Anyway. I saw it when she was trying to recite the pathetic rhetoric to me that crime doesn't "deserve death". What am I surrounded by, fucking Jedi knights? (I enjoy entertainment like everyone else, don't be surprised)._

 _Hidden in the spaces between her words was an uncertainty. She bit her plump bottom lip as she tried to recall words that did not belong to her own soul, and there was a wickedness in her eyes as if she had remembered something that could warrant death._

 _Mmmhmmm. My little Harley was already staged on the inside, ready for me to address the audience through her body._

 _That's why I sent the poem, you see. I had to be sure. Part of me wanted to kill her, yes. I wanted to wrap that golden hair around her neck and watch her self doubt and scorn slip away, but that would be too easy. Besides, what good was a toy without that spunk and sassy mouth, anyway? (Rather useless, in my opinion)._

 _I wanted her scared, so I could see how she reacted on dangerous terrain. Then, I was to be her savior - pull her from her fear and show her that she could trust me. Rely on me._

 _One piece at a time. Oh, this puzzle was a fascinating one. My poor little Harley with all her training was smashing pieces that didn't quite belong together while I was waiting for the edges to perfectly line up. I had the upper hand, but I let her think that she was in control. I let her believe that she made her own decisions. I would let her think that she was directing this therapy._

 _See, there's this concept in psychiatry called "transference". Interesting phenomenon really. A patient would, subconsciously, transfer a void from their childhood onto the therapist, resulting erotic attraction and even extreme dependence. The therapist then gains all the_ _ **power**_ _, a god-like status to the patient, and I intended to see if I could manipulate her feelings toward me this way._

 _She was a single woman (that was disappointing, really - one less person to kill), trapped in a social class that was unforgiving and not understanding of her poor upbringing, and she craved excitement. I was a wild card, a joker, unfettered by morals, uncaring of her upbringing and full of excitement. Just by being who I am, I was what she needed._

 _Maybe, in the deep, dark recesses of my heart (dusty in there), I liked being needed. I liked that who I am was enough for someone else._

 _ **Enough of that.**_

 _So, when my little Harley decided to show her pretty, lying and rotten face in my cell again, I did not move toward the table. I simply continued to peruse the documents I'd already read, watching as she squirmed beneath the weight of my displeasure. This was how I would assume power today, as it was a constant, unspoken argument between her and I. Today, I was the judge and she was on trial for her sins. Luckily for her, I was a sucker for jokes and apologies._

"Tell me something funny, because this…" _I held up the papers with her name,_ "... doesn't make me laugh."

* * *

Harley had walked out of the frying pot and into the fire, it seemed. She had just been attending a meeting in which the board of directors addressed all of the therapists regarding their stance on Dr. Marshall's death. They were all carefully schooled by the PR team about how to phrase their concerns when inevitably assaulted by the media, and their jobs were held as collateral for their obedience. The whole thing made her violently upset.

She was supposed to tell the media that a man who had abused a patient and harassed her was a good therapist and that he would be missed? And if she didn't, she would lose her job?

The pretty blonde doctor seethed in her seat the entire time, arms crossed over her chest as she glared at the faceless, overweight suited man from beneath her dark lashes. In fact, she bet that this little prick was one of the same men who would harass a secretary in his office while making advertisements of fake housewives smiling over her new vacuum cleaner. Misogynistic bullshit is what it was.

Harley flew from her seat the second the meeting was over and grabbed her notebook from her office. The roses were still there, and they were thriving under her care. She had read how to give them flower food (sugar), and trim the stems so they could continue getting water. They brought a smile to her face despite the fact that this shit show job was getting shittier by the minute.

The Joker had been right with the whole dead prostitute joke.

What she was actually look forward to that day was seeing him. The last time they had met had been surprisingly cathartic. She didn't want to admit it, but she had needed to talk to someone frankly - someone like the Joker who wouldn't judge and actually seemed to care about what she said. These sessions were where she could honestly relax, talk how she normally would, and let a suppressed side of her be free.

Maybe it was silly and naive, but she was starting to think that the Joker wasn't really crazy. He was far more rational than a few people she knew, but he had a hair trigger temper. That was okay. She could deal handle it.

She couldn't handle what she walked into today. As she let herself into his cell with her access card, she saw him sitting there holding hundreds of papers. Harley furrowed her brows and wondered which guard was smuggling this much information to him, but she wondered more what it was he was fixated on. Normally, he was sitting at their table patiently for their sessions, but today, he was irked.

He held up the papers, and she saw her name on a form listing her as a competing gymnast. Harley blanched. Oh, that. So, yes, there were a few things she had left out. After being threatened (or not threatened?) with a poem, she had been hesitant to dive into every, minute detail of her past. In his defense, maybe they weren't so minute. Okay, okay, so they were kind of a big deal.

Shit.

She pinched the bridge of her nose nervously and frowned. "Okay, okay, I got one. You ready Mistah J?" she asked, making sure that he was still willing to listen to a joke.

He simply waved his hand, indicating that she had the floor and he was listening.

"What's the difference between ya dick and ya bonus check?" she asked.

The Joker's expression twisted in amusement and he shrugged.

"Someone's always willin' ta blow your bonus check," she finished the punchline with an attempt at a small smile.

The Joker paused and then laughed wildly, a mad grin baring his metal teeth. He stood and then came to stand in front of her, one of his hands delicately and gently coming to rest on the side of her pretty face. "Oh, honey," he purred. "That was a good one." With a sharp inhale, he leaned down, taking in her scent and holding her still with the pads of his fingers just at the base of her skull. "Almost makes me forget that you lied to me… almost…" he whispered, enjoying the shiver felt crawl up her spine.

"Mistah J, I - " she began, but she was cut off by his thick index finger being placed over her lips, shushing her effectively. He drug her bottom lip down, revealing her straight teeth before wrapping each of his white digits around her neck, tapping them along each cervical vertebrae. The squeeze he gave was restrained, a warning.

"Harley, **pumpkin** ," he hummed, bending over so that his blue eyes were boring into hers at her level. "I was nice, wasn't I? I listened to yah, wanted to know about yah, right?"

She nodded her head, breath coming in shallow gasps.

"That's right. But you lied to me. You didn't tell me everything like I asked, and pumpkin, I just don't like that. Would you like being lied to?"

She shook her head, no.

"No… you wouldn't. In fact, you yelled at me when I lied. You said to **CUT THE BULLSHIT.** So why do yah hurt me, Harley?" He relaxed his grip on her throat and stroked her neck with his fingers, waiting for her answer.

"I… Mistah J, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt yah, but I didn't think… I kinda just wanted to…" she stammered, but his patience gave her time to sort out all of her words. "I kinda just wanted to tell you when I wanted, yannow? Maybe just go slowly?" Harley explained, unable to help the feeling of arousal creeping down low in her hips as he stroked her neck with terrifying affection.

The Joker seemed to pause to consider this and then released her neck completely, taking the back of his hand and gently stroking it up and down the soft skin of her cheek. "I don't like hurting yah, Harley, but you lie and I just can't help but think of them… the dishonest, abusing therapists from before. We tell each other the truth, right?" He continued to bend over into her space, his gaze never wavering as he watched her fight with herself over this one instance of control.

 _Yield to me, baby._

Then, like a perfect girl, she did. "Oh, Mistah J, I am so sorry. I am not like those other doctors, I swear. Look, I can prove it to yah, alright? No lies. I'll tell yah what yah want to know and then we can get yah all sorted out too."

He smiled. "Ahh, you're so **good.** " Then, he stepped away and took a seat across from her like normal, eyes watching her every move as she came to sit in her space. "So, tell me about these acrobatics for today. We can go slow, Harley." The Joker was building his throne, saying just the right things for her to transfer whatever she was lacking onto him. She was giving it to him so easily.

"Thanks, Mistah J. When I was a kid, the only way to get extra money for lunches was to participate in sports. Gymnastics was one of my options, and I always liked watchin' them on TV, yannow? It was fun and it made me special. I kept with it through high school and even college. After school, I cleaned the gym for lessons, and I only had to quit when I went to medical school," she explained. "I competed a little, and I was good. But I had ta go home and take care of mom, so I never got to states or nothin' like that."

"Such a shame the world never got to see your talent," he hummed. "Perhaps you can, someday."

"I'm not that good, Mistah J. Therapy and gymnastics don't exactly help each other."

"Oh, I don't know about that, kitten," he said, grinning. "I think it would be positively hilarious to see you shrink me all bent around, don't you?"

Harley chuckled. "Kitten? That's new."

"Yes, a sweet little playful kitten with needle claws," he clarified. "Daddy likes kittens."

"Funny, so you really are as crazy as a bag of cats," she joked. It was a weak joke, but still kinda funny. Besides, it was a way to deflect from the fact that it would be even more inappropriate to perform his therapy while doing the splits across the table - not to say that that wasn't a great fantasy.

The Joker grinned wide. "So they say." He leaned back, stretching out his long legs beneath the table so that his socked feet ended up on her side. "Your turn, Harley."

"What do you think about doin' some word associations?" she asked. When he nodded that he would participate, she straightened her shoulders and looked down at her notes, getting together her list of words.

"Memory," she said quietly.

"Mmmm…" his gaze darkened. "You of all people should know, there's nothing so cruel as memory. Biting, snapping shards of the past unwilling to leave you alone. Unwanted party crashers." His voice deepened, darkened. The gravel there in his tones were so unlike his normal, sing-song, melodic voice. "Over time they deform, change, bastardize until your very identity is based on a lie and you don't even know who you are anymore. Your laughter reverberates off the walls of your own emptiness."

"Is that… is that how you really feel?" she asked, empathizing. She knew what it was like to feel unwanted memories, to have them control and change you. Her father's face still haunted her, and she felt alone even in her own skin.

"I did," he said simply. "Do you know how lonely it is? To wade through all this wretched filth on your own?"

"It is kinda lonely," she admitted, though she was trying to stay guarded.

"Of course you understand. You know what it's like to want to scream, claw, kick and yell at the top of your lungs, but you're strangled by the "should be" and "could be" posters and advertisements telling you to fall in line."

"Yeah, yeah I do. Okay, let's try another one. Time."

"You're all out," he purred.

"Huh?" she asked, confused.

"You're all out of time for today, Harley. Thank you, my dear, for your honesty." He grinned, a wide, toothy smile of metal that made her feel both excited and worried at the same time.

She let herself out, listening to him laugh as she walked down the hall. Once in her office, she immediately began typing out her reports and thoughts on the Joker, even going to her texts to try to analyze him from an academic standpoint. The word she kept coming back to was "lonely". He admitted to being lonely, and that was something she could treat.

Maybe there was hope after all.

* * *

More Joker POV for you guys! Let me know what you think! I'm really trying to balance having the Joker being one mind-fucking, clever asshole and get to her in a reasonable timeline without me turning Harley into a painful ditz who falls in love too easily. I don't think that I'd be doing justice to her intelligence by letting her follow him around like a lost puppy without argument, yannow?

 _ **All that's coming soon though! Would you guys be interested in my playlist for writing this? Anything else you'd like to see? I love reviews, so please leave one and let me know what you think?**_


	6. Chapter 6

You'll have to let me know how I handled the transition of the doctor to Harley! If it was believable, explained well enough, paced well, etc.

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The last time Harley had hit the books this hard, she had been studying for her board examinations. Her office was covered in printed articles from peer-reviewed journals, dictionaries, textbooks, and notecards. Call her a girly girl, but there was something about colored notecards that helped her study. They were all stuck in pages and scribbled on, and she was nearing the deep hours of the night by the time she started compiling them all into her running report. Long, blonde hair loose from her bun, and she had a pen between her teeth as her fingers flew over the keyboard. Every few lines, she would scoot on her rolling chair and yank a card from a textbook, including the reference in her analysis.

By the time she was done, she had written a worthy, open-ended thesis with multiple diagnoses for the Joker. Each of them was a possibility, but she would have to learn more to really get to the root of his issues. She felt like she was actually getting somewhere that no one had before, unlocking the clown prince's head and putting him down on paper. When looking at him intellectually like this, he wasn't so scary anymore.

In fact, compared to research done on the Joker before, she could easily win a prize. Based on his obsession, reactivity and mood swings, she had effectively ruled out sociopathy. He was truly feeling those emotions as evidenced by his quick reaction time and instinct-like speed. That means that she had identified him as a psychopath, officially. Now, she was narrowing down the type. Organic psychosis was out due to his MRI and CT scans upon entry. While it was kinda possible (she used more professional language in her report, of course) that he could have gotten a head injury that caused all this, it was unlikely. His brain looked normal and besides multiple remodeled facial bones, he didn't have any tumors or abnormalities.

Now, she was between schizophrenia (not multiple personalities - that's a common misconception), depression with psychotic features, delusional disorder and bipolar illness. The one displaying most of his symptoms so far was psychotic depression. He mentioned loneliness and being haunted by his memories, signs of depression, and if the weight of that trauma caused him to snap, it could induce psychosis. Often that appear to be bipolar, but those suffering from bipolar disease hear voices. He seemed far too in control to have voices.

Rather satisfied with herself, she emailed her report to her superiors and colleague for review. Arkham seemed like a place where academics went to die (turn of phrase - publish or perish in the academic world but also a horribly inappropriate dual meaning), but she may get one of the best papers of her life done in just a few weeks!

She could just _kiss_ Mister J for giving her this leap in her career.

Absently, one of her hands went to her throat, rubbing there where his fingers had been settled. There were tiny, greenish bruises on the back of her neck at her hairline from his strength, and she actually smiled when she saw them in the women's room mirror. They brought a good chill down her spine - one that told her she was balancing on a tightrope. Good thing she had excellent balance, right?

Harley wasn't exactly using him, either. I mean, sure, it might seem like she was just doing all this to get her publication and notoriety, but it wasn't all true. She was a very smart woman, and she knew being on the good side of that much power couldn't be a bad thing. Besides, he was the most interesting man she had ever met in her life, and she legitimately enjoyed their sessions - even when he bullshit her.

He made her realize things about herself that she had thought she lost - brought back a past that she thought she had buried. Like acrobatics, for example. How long had it been since she felt that good burn through her muscles? When was the last time she got crappy coffee from Marco's coffee shop stuck between a bail bond joint and a tattoo shop? She used to go there all time, living a real life stuck in the grit of Gotham.

The Joker had given her a very important part of her identity back. He had made her realize that the anger she felt over her father's death was good. She shouldn't just let go and forget, yannow? If she just let go that her dad was murdered, then who would do anything about it? Everyone always preached that somethings were just meant to happen, but that was fucking bullshit. Bad things happened to poor people; it was systematic abuse of power. Good things happened to rich people.

What was Gabe, her neighbor, supposed to do when his legit job paid him fuck all and worked him to the bone? How was he supposed to refuse selling drugs when they offered him triple his salary for half the work? He had kids. That drug money provided more for his family than an honest job ever would, and Harley just inherited her fortune in her smarts and looks. Gotham praised the poor, pretty blonde girl with athletic talent and good grades rising above the squalor they created.

Their poster child for _"work hard and good things will happen!_ "

That's why Harley didn't hate the Joker like others did. She didn't hate the drug dealers in her building. She didn't turn her nose up at the street fighters in the warehouse down the road. They were making a living in a society that rejected them; a world where cops beat on the sick and defenseless; a world where the Batman was praised for branding his victims and punching their teeth down their throat.

So yeah, she was trying to help these people and advance her career in the process. She'd show 'em all what the poor kids could do.

Somewhere in her thoughts, time had escaped her, and she had fallen asleep draped over her desk. Her glasses were half stuck to her face and blonde hair tumbled all over her books. She even had a few pages stuck in her mouth.

It wasn't until the early light of dawn filtered through her window that she jerked awake, blinking through smudges on her glasses and a journal page still stuck to the side of her face. With a groan, she peeled it from her face and rubbed at her eyes, smudging her eyeliner. " **Shit,** " she grumbled, running her fingers through her messy hair. Harley opened her desk drawer and grabbed a spare set of scrubs she kept on hand, quickly changing in her office. Unfortunately they were mismatched. Oh well. Nothing she could do about the red top and black pants.

She exchanged the heels for her athletic shoes and didn't even bother with her hair - nothing would fix it at this point. That was the problem with curls; they never behaved.

After checking the time, she jogged to get breakfast and then jogged back, cleaning up her eyes with a napkin before setting about reorganizing her desk. That's when she noticed that sometime during the night, someone had put a purple suit jacket around her shoulders. It had fallen behind her chair when she woke up. Harley furrowed her brows and searched the pockets, finding a "Joker" playing card in one. A smile turned her lips upwards, and she put it on.

The sleeves were far too long - she had to roll them up, and she had no hope of buttoning the top button due to the size of her breasts. She shrugged and shoved her hands in the pockets, enjoying the feeling of him all around her. If this is what he smelled like away from the sterile cleansers of the asylum, then he smelled damn fine. The scent was a mix of cigar smoke, flowers, and musk. Her father used to smoke cigars…

Just as she sat back down in her chair to eat her breakfast, Dr. Sheridan stepped in, eyes looking over the younger doctor in confusion. "Dr. Quinzel," she said, frowning. "Interesting attire…"

Harley didn't want to answer. She hadn't been asked a question. But, she knew she had to play the game and be polite; the Joker really was right. Once you started seeing the shackles of society, the more annoying and prevalent they became. "Oh, yeah. Fell asleep here working on my report and changed into some spare scrubs I had in my drawer. Jacket's from my man," she explained, feeling a wickedness in her soul smile at calling the Joker 'her man'.

Anne smiled. "Oh, how nice. Purple, what a funny color," she commented.

"Yeah, he's quite the comedian," she replied, laughing on the inside. "Did you need something?"

"Yes, yes. I just wanted to tell you that I will review your report today and give you my edits by five. Will that work?" the elder woman asked.

"That will be just fine. Thank you, Anne."

The older doctor nodded and left, leaving Harley to her breakfast - coffee, a banana and chocolate pudding. She put her feet up on her desk as she ate, grabbing her phone and opening a god-awful, smutty romance novel on her phone. This one was about some guy in a motorcycle club and a goody-two-shoes college girl, but the plot was always the same. Guy likes girl. Girl likes guy. Guy can't love girl. Girl tells him he can. They say fuck all and do it anyway. Girl gets hurt. Guy rescues her, _yadda yadda._

She loved it anyway.

In fact, she read until it was time for her session with the Joker. Harley jumped up from her chair, stretched and trotted to the commissary for lunch. She grabbed enough food for two and then took the elevator up to his floor. With her arms full, she finagled the door open with her foot and access card in her teeth, and as she entered, she was met with his applause.

Grinning, Harley bowed and then put the food on the table. His gaze swept over her approvingly, smirking as he noticed the jacket. With feline grace, he sat across from her and looked over the food, finding her choices amusing. He preferred fine dining when given the opportunity, but his little Harley ate kid food. The Joker lifted a chocolate pudding cup up between them, grinning.

"You actually eat this?" he asked, eyes perusing the label.

Harley snatched it out of his hand. "Hey, you don't like it, you don't hafta eat it," she teased. "I love it." She shoved more food his way, watching as he settled on a sandwich. Since utensils weren't allowed on this floor, she used her finger to scoop out the pudding and suck it off of her finger.

His gaze darkened, and he grunted. "Mmmm. If only I tasted as good," he rumbled, a wicked smirk drawing his lips upward.

"Ya might, I dunno, **Puddin'** ," she replied with a blush.

The joker only raised a brow and then went back to eating slowly. "So, I heard you were busy studying last night," he hummed, tone wavering somewhere between curious and displeased.

"I figured ya did given the jacket. Thank you," she said, shrugging her narrow shoulders beneath the purple material.

"You're welcome," he purred. "Do share your findings with the class."

"Well, I studied up on yah, and I have a few theories about why you are the way you are," she explained. "Or at least what ailments you suffer from."

Something like rage briefly flickered over his expression, tension drawing over his broad shoulders before settling back behind his self-assured mask. " ** _Oh?_** "

"Yeah, I think you suffer from psychotic depression." Harley looked up at him, examining his enigmatic, luminous blue eyes.

The Joker laughed, grinning wide. "You think I am depressed?" he mocked. "That my madness is due to some inability to cope with... _what_ … my past? _Loneliness_?" His upper lip curled into a sneer. "You **insult** me, to think I can be reduced by this **whimpering** diagnosis." Slender but well muscled arms folded over his chest, and he watched the pain behind her eyes turn to prideful anger.

Harley felt the sting of his insult but glared, straightening her spine. "What, so you disagree? Last time I checked, I was the doctor here. If ya think ya know what's wrong with ya, then tell me. That'd make my job alot easier," she snapped in response, trying not to let her feelings get the best of her right now.

"I think you're _projecting,_ my dear Harley," he purred. "There's nothing wrong with me - nothing at all. I am free, truly free. You, on the other hand, have to make up all these fancy terms and phrases to define what you don't understand. You, my **pumpkin,** see yourself in me. So, I would say you think you are suffering from this depression, this plague from your past." The Joker leaned in on his forearms, turning his head to the side with a smile.

"Maybe… this has to do with **daddy**?"

"Mistah J…" she warned. "Shut up!" Her words were completely ignored.

"It's amazing what you can find when you look hard enough. The trial was removed from public record, but I was able to get the gist. Killed by a drunk driver, right?" He watched as tears began to well up in her eyes. Beautiful. "A _fat cat_ in a custom suit, limited edition rolex on his thick wrist, and he had all the connections with power. The judge came to his family's house for dinner. And friends in the PR world portrayed him as a _good guy_ who made one mistake. He got off faster than a teenager in the back of a truck."

"Mistah J, why are you saying this?" she asked, wiping tears away on her face.

"He got to live on while your poor papa was dead. In the fucking ground. His wife was a basketcase and you… _**well**_ … you were powerless to do anything about it." He paused, expression softening to one of pure empathy. "I used to be the same way, you know. Powerless. 'Til the greatest thing that ever could happen to me did, and when my eyes stopped stinging, I saw the true hypocrisy of the world painted on its ugly face like a clown. When I stopped caring about the rules? Then it was I who had all the _**power.**_ "

The Joker grabbed a paper bag from his uniform and set it on the table between them, pushing it in her direction. He was smiling, proud, and he knew that this would make things better. Sometimes pain was necessary; like ripping off a band aid. Harley was crying now, but he would make it _aaaallllll_ better.

With shaking hands, Harley stubbornly grabbed the bag and ripped it open, furious with J for mocking her and bringing up such horrible memories. She was pissed! How dare he dredge up all this shit? With a final shove of her fingers, she revealed the contents of the package, recoiling in her chair and covering her mouth and nose with the back of her forearm.

There, sitting on the table, was a large, pudgy hand and wrist with a custom rolex still wrapped around the bruised sinews of flesh. The blood had all coagulated and its color was somewhere between blue and gray. Nerves were frayed and hard like straws, and the flesh around the severed edges was brittle and shrunken. She stared at it for a long time. Harley wasn't squeamish. She wouldn't have survived medical school if she were, but the smell was awful. Like a dead rat stuck in a wall. Honestly, she was trying to sort through all of her feelings, and considering the rollercoaster she'd been on, she deserved a while.

Though she hated to admit it, the first feeling she experienced seeing that hand was relief. Justice had been served. Her father had been avenged. Someone had suffered for their crimes like they deserved, and she could sleep peacefully knowing that he wouldn't kill anyone else. You know when people talk about closure? Well she finally felt as if she had it, really and truly. A bigger part of her loved J for it; he had given her the greatest gift she could ever ask for.

Another part of her was pissed! Wasn't that her retribution to take? Shouldn't she have been the one to deliver the killing blow? I mean, if anyone had the right to avenge her father, it was her! But that was selfish, right? I mean J certainly didn't mean to steal her thunder and take her role.

The part of her, conditioned by society, to be horrified and upset by the grotesque murder was but a shadow - a little voice whispered, ignored and summarily shoved in a fucking closet. Weak. That girl was weak!

"... Oh, and sorry it's only the hand, but it's a real _bitch_ trying to mule a dead body in here. God knows I tried…" he apologized sincerely. "The rest of him is hidden, if you care to, you know… let out your lingering frustrations."

Harley sniffled and finally wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, taking a deep, calming breath. One of her hands rubbed the side of her face, exhaustion taking hold. "I'm not gunna lie to yah, Mistah J, I feel alotta things about this," she said quietly. He seemed to stiffen, unsure of her reaction. "But thank you. Really and truly, thank you. This… is more than anyone else has ever done for me."

He smiled.

"But next time?"

"Yeah, honey?" He purred.

"Next time, I get to help, okay?"

The Joker laughed, throwing his head back in pleasure. "Oh, pumpkin, nothing would make me happier."

* * *

Aahhh, I am actually pretty proud of this chapter. I THINK I did a good job respecting Harley's intelligence while still making her fall a bit to the crazy. I also tried really hard to make crazy make some sense! Let me know what you think, please. **I love your reviews. If you want to be featured as a character in this story, let me know in a review and I can PM you!**

Harley and J will only get closer from here on out ;) If you want the playlist, let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

HI! SORRY! I am back. Had my first quantum mechanics exam on Monday and then had to recover my life after that. This chapter may seem a bit rushed? I hope not, but I will come back and edit in a few hours. Also, a second chapter will follow this one this weekend! It's already mostly written as well.

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Her head was reeling. Somehow, she had managed to stumble back to her shitty little flat, kick off her heels, and make it to the couch. Being a psychiatrist, she knew this sounded ridiculous, but she felt as if she was being torn in two. On the one side, she was a doctor, a well respected member of society who went to charity balls and other functions. She had taken a vow to do no harm and a much more personal one to try to help the destitute and mentally ill in Gotham who were all but forgotten. That half of her was good. That half was honest. Studious. Frugal. Caring. Genuine.

The other side was a darkness she had found since she was a child. Everyone has it, so don't lie. It was the feeling of wanting to steal when your parents left spare change on the counter top and the urge to wrap your fingers around the neck of that one bitch who relentlessly mocked you in school. This half wanted to be close to the danger for excitement and was simultaneously aroused and awakened when engaged in mind games she knew she could win.

She'd be lying if she said she had survived on the former half alone. No, it was this darkness that drove her to get better grades than the other students - not because she wanted the best for herself but because she wanted to humiliate the others. The brutal half was the one unafraid to dig into the dissection while the other medical students were busy trying not to toss their lunch in the bin, and it was this dark fascination that drew her to Arkham.

Was her better half just a mask? Was it a conditioned artifact of her position in Gotham?

Harley shoved her fingers through her blonde hair and tugged, trying to relieve the pressure. Finally, she threw her body from the couch, marched into her small kitchen and yanked open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of wine. After popping the cork, she took the whole bottle back to the couch and collapsed on it again, taking a long, deep drink. A wine glass was a bit pointless given the volume she planned to consume.

She heard _him_ in her own head, words he had spoken echoing throughout her drunken mind. " _You're projecting…"_ Was she? Had he even once given her a snippet of honesty? One glimpse into his broken psyche?

No.

He was far too smart for that. The most honest words he had spoken had to do with his stinging eyes and something great happening to him. What was that? What did he mean? J would not let such a card fall from his deck if he hadn't intended for her to see it, so what exactly was he getting at? Had he been different before? Some catastrophic event changed his life? She could go to the news archives and look it up, but she had no idea how old he even was. You try getting a good age on a man with white skin and silver, false teeth. The wrinkles around his face were just from smiling, so that was a bust.

She had no idea who he really was, and he had killed for her. He had looked into her past, went digging where he didn't belong and murdered the man responsible for her father's death. Who did that? Harley had no one she could ask to kill someone for her; that was crazy, right? I mean sure, it happened in romance novels. Good girl gets kidnapped by bad guy and her even worse boyfriend saves her and murders the kidnapper in cold blood. That was fiction.

This was real life. _Her_ life.

Then why, mixed with the horror, were there butterflies in her stomach? The same fluttering feeling she got when being flirted with? Why did she want to throw herself across the table at J and sink her teeth into his skin?

Completely drunk and with a mostly empty bottle of red wine on her coffee table, she tripped into her bedroom and stripped out of her clothes, falling face-first into her bed. Nearly the second she was prone, sleep and strange dreams plagued her mind, and she woke up to the sound of her alarm giggling and cradling her aching head in her hands.

 _Fuuuuccckkkk…._

Really, what else was there to say when waking up to a hangover to end all hangovers? Harley pulled herself across her bed and looked at the time, groaning when she saw that she was already late for office hours. Oh well. Anne Sheridan would just have to wait for her weekly report. The unfinished draft was sitting on her dinosaur of a work computer because she had no idea how to sugar-coat the fact that J had given her a severed hand as a gift, and she definitely did not know how to write that it made her feel special.

A forced shower later, she pulled on a pair of black slacks and a loose, dark gray blouse. Colors would just enhance the dark circles and pale, alcohol ridden quality of her skin. Unwilling to make an effort with her hair, she pinned it up into a loose, messy bun and put on the minimal makeup requirement to look more alive than dead and slid her feet into shorter, black heels. Harley snatched her keys and purse from the floor and drove to Arkham, sitting in the car and looking up at the daunting spires with an uncomfortable mixture of dread and excitement.

How had she not noticed before how the gothic architecture of the asylum cast such dark and dismal shadows across the manicured lawn? The gray stones reminded her more of a medieval castle than a place of healing, and she wondered how long it had been since anyone had ventured up into the looming spires.

She was stalling.

Harley went through the motions of passing security and her hand trembled, hovering over the handle of her office door. She was afraid of what she would find this time. Teeth? Another hand? An eyeball? Clenching her jaw, she shoved the door open unceremoniously, facing her fears as she always did - with brute force and a stubborn will.

Sitting on her desk was a white lily tied to a white rose. She made her way toward her chair, blue eyes scanning other surfaces for more surprises and feeling relief when she found none. Lilies were supposed to resemble innocence. Was that supposed to be her? J's purple jacket was still draped over the back of her chair, and she grabbed it, wrapping it around her shoulders like armor. The scent was soothing… and she relaxed into her report, trying not to think about how late it was. She'd never been late with paperwork before.

As if reading her thoughts, Anne Sheridan stopped in, opening her mouth only to be cut off by a Harley with a headache. "I will have it to you in an hour," she said. "Yesterday required reflection, and I had an appointment this morning."

Dr. Sheridan simply nodded and took her leave. Harley finished the report, leaving out the parts with the severed hand and when she admitted she wanted to take her revenge at his final result was mostly focused on his discussion of power and admittance of some sort of past happenstance. As soon as it was complete, she emailed it without looking it over again and then shrugged out of his jacket, having to go see the famous jester.

By the slight narrowing of his eyes, he scrutinized her the second she came inside. He was already sitting at their table, hands folded neatly on the metal. She gave him a single, sharp look in response, letting him know that she saw him staring and wasn't pleased by his unveiled analysis.

"You look like shit," he said bluntly, taking the metaphorical sawed off shotgun to subtle social cues and boundaries.

Harley narrowed her eyes in response. "So do you," she snapped back, crossing her legs and opening her portfolio. But, even as she looked down at her page, she snuck a glance back up at him, captured by his deep, blue eyes.

J laughed, amused by her sass. "I am disappointed in you," he trailed.

"Eh, join the club," she muttered, dating the page in her notebook and waving her hand dismissively.

"You did not ask where I left the rest of your father's killer," he continued as if she hadn't spoken at all.

"Does it matter?" she grumbled, truly deflecting. In actuality, she wanted to set fire to his corpse and watch him burn.

"Tut tut, my little harlequin. I thought we'd gotten past all your little thorns and barbs. Of course it matters. When you can be honest to be, you can be honest with yourself," he said with a plaintive, dramatic sigh and a small smirk. "So, talk to me." His tone was open and almost gentle, and she looked up at him with furrowed, confused brows.

"Talk to you? About what? That I wanna burn his corpse, Mistah J? That I'm a little mad you killed 'im without me? Or do you wanna talk about how I feel ripped in two? That I cannot look my colleagues in the eyes when they ask me about you because of the guilt I feel? Or maybe you wanna talk about how I can't sleep unless I drink enough to shut up your voice in my head?" By the end of her small, impassioned rant, she was almost shouting.

The rise and fall of her chest was aggressive, and her own blue eyes stared into his accusingly, white knuckling the pen in her hand. She had never been so beautiful to him like this - completely undone, mired in her own chaos, adrift in the sea of her own psyche. Every cell of her body was prepared for a fight or surrender, and he could taste the sweetness of her disillusion.

Slowly and with the utmost calm, the center of her storm, he leaned forward onto his elbows and his stern, bright gaze never wavered. For once, the permanent smirk on his lips was replaced with a more serious line, making him look, somehow, older.

"Be mad at me for taking that kill from you, but be mad at yourself for not doing it sooner. You're smart and capable. You could have shot and claimed self defense and the world would have pitied your crocodile tears," he rumbled deeply, tilting his head to the side as she cast her gaze away. "Such a pretty little thing could only be the victim." J continued, his deep, almost whispered voice soothing some of the rage inside.

"Guilt is for the weak. The strong, the powerful… have nothing to feel guilty for, because we are the ones who make the world and set it on its proper axis. When you force the universe to orbit your desires, you can do no wrong." She gave him a look and he shrugged as if reading her mind. "Selfish? Maybe, but let me ask you: what the fuck has Gotham ever done for you?"

Nothing…

"I can make you whole."

Harley looked up at him, not trusting his promise but very much wanting to regardless. Her vice grip on her pen slackened and she frowned. "How?" The question was pained, holding the tone of someone at the bottom of a well and unsure if they should make it their home.

"Trust me."

It wasn't a question. It was a demand. She either did or she didn't and there was no middle ground. Harley bit her bottom lip as she tried to think through her options, but she knew that she couldn't keep going on like this. The week she'd been seeing J felt like years, and she couldn't explain how time seemed to be meaningless in his presence.

She'd come at this problem every way she knew how: aggressively, kindly, studiously… Harley had relied on her books and they'd failed her, and she couldn't get through to him at all. He was a brick wall. But what better to lean on, right?

"Okay," she said.

"Just like that?" he asked, his familiar smirk curling his lips up again.

"Just like that," she said with a deep sigh.

"Excellent." He leaned back in his chair again and ran his eyes from the top of her head to the bottoms of her feet, observing the womanly perfection in front of him. It was true, he'd never paid much mind to women before, but something about her begged for his attention. That was a turn of phrase, naturally. He couldn't picture her easily begging for much, but as his thoughts darkened, he pictured how stunning she would look begging him for...anything, really.

"So what now?" she asked, her tone almost bratty. She was uncomfortable being at his mercy, following his lead. For such a long time, she had control (presumptive control), but now she was having to follow. Poor thing.

"Now, I need you to do a few things for me."

"What...things?" she asked warily.

"This and that. Does it matter what things?"

"I suppose… not…" she trailed, obviously wondering what sort of errands he would have a well known psychiatrist performing in broad daylight. Soon, he would have her storming down the streets in total chaos, but she still had much to learn.

"Good, then I need you to introduce yourself to a man named Frost. Bring him this card," he pulled out a joker card from an old deck that looked like it had been shot through at least once, "and tell him that you're available. Give him your number."

"I am not fucking a man named Frost," she said bluntly.

The Joker laughed, throwing his head back in revelation as he fully expressed the extent of his amusement. His chest shook from beneath the plain, white scrubs, and he looked human for a moment - almost.

"I am not asking you to. Trust me."

"Fine," she grumbled, taking the card. Then, she pointed a finger in his direction. "But if this turns out to be some sort of set up, Mistah J, you fucking know who controls yours meds," she threatened.

He flashed his metallic smile then snapped at her pointed finger, feral. "Point that finger at me again, and I'll bite it off," he rumbled, and she knew he was only half joking.

Harley closed her fist and gave him a look before standing up. "I'll do this," she said, holding up the card between two fingers like a cig, "before traffic gets bad then. Seeya round, Mistah J."

"You know where to find me." He grinned. She snorted and shook her head before walking out and quickly gathering her things.

Harley opened up her phone and googled "Frost", seeing his name associated with quite a few crimes even though his record was squeaky clean. She saw that his professional status was actually connected to a local dance club in the industrial district of Gotham, and she furrowed her brows. Seriously? Did the Joker really own a dance club called the "Aces Wild"?

She sighed and left Arkham before anyone could notice that she left early and stopped at her flat to switch out her car for her motorcycle. Rarely did she ever drive a vehicle that could potentially get stuck anywhere near that part of town. Harley zipped up her leather jacket and stuck her feet in boots then took off on her Honda bike toward Aces Wild.

Nightclubs during the day were pretty strange looking - like abandoned buildings that gave urban explorers hard ons. Harley parked outside two beat up double doors and pushed her way inside, seeing a lavish interior that was silent to the point of echoing her steps. A large man with dark brown hair and brown eyes stepped in her way, looking pissed and confused. "We're not open yet," he grunted.

"I am here to see Frost," she stated calmly, unafraid of this goon.

"You're looking at him," he crossed his thick arms over his chest.

"Good, Mistah J told me to give you this and tell you that I am available. My number is on a sticky on the back." Harley reached into her pocket and pulled out the card, and Frost's expression was priceless. He was shocked, and she snatched the card out of his hand, sighing.

"I can't tell if you're a dumb broad, have a death with or know somethin' I don't, but I look forward to working with you, Miss…" he trailed, expecting her to fill in the gap with her name.

"Miss Harley."

"Harley. Huh. Okay, then tell J we are ready when he is." Then, the broad shouldered henchman turned on his heels and marched back into gold decorations, leaving her there alone.


	8. Chapter 8

I promised you a chapter this weekend, and I delivered. We are getting so close to Harley truly becoming Harley Quin. You'll have to let me know what you think of this chapter.

* * *

The next few days over the weekend were spent with her performing random requests from J. His orders were delivered via cellphone through Frost, and some of them were downright strange. For example, on Saturday morning, he sent her to a beauty salon where she got her nails and hair done. When she went to pay, the bill had already been covered. Only a few hours later, she delivered a strange envelope from the clerk of a pawn shop to Frost. As much as she wanted to read the contents, she decided it was better to gain J's trust than satiate her curiosity.

Besides, it wasn't as if his errands were illegal. Mostly, they were mundane and got her out of the house, which was good for her on the weekends. Harley even went to the gym for the first time in a few weeks, hitting the treadmill for a quick warm up and then practicing a few moves she had mastered in high school. The doctor left her glasses in her locker, not needing them for acrobatics. Without them, her vision was a little fuzzy, but her depth perception was mostly fine.

Harley tossed her legs up in a quick handstand and pushed off with her palms, arching through the air then landing on her feet. She effortlessly moved into a front flip, grinning as she nailed the landing. Sometimes you just didn't forget - kinda like riding a bike.

After an hour, she heard clapping from the other end of the gym, and she righted herself, brows furrowed. When did everyone clear out? Suddenly, the silence was deafening, and she squinted to make out the familiar, broad shouldered shape of Frost. Her lips bowed into a tight frown. "What do you want?" she demanded, resting her hands on her tightly clad hips.

"You were late for your next assignment. Making sure you haven't gotten cold feet," he replied.

"What am I? Gettin' married or something?" she snapped, marching toward him, unafraid.

"Or something," he replied.

Harley squinted in the direction of the exits, seeing more obnoxiously large men covering the sides. They must have been the ones to clear out the gym. Should she be nervous?

"I am not getting cold feet; I just got carried away," she explained, figuring it would be prudent to cooperate now that she was alone and surrounded.

"Good, good." Frost reached into his pocket and grabbed a stuffed toy kitty cat, tossing it her way. Harley snatched it out of the air and furrowed her brows. The man shrugged. "Give it to J when you see him tomorrow."

"What's it mean?" she asked, curious.

"Means you're ready."

"For what?"

"He'll explain." Frost nodded to the henchmen and they all neatly filed out, leaving her alone in the empty gym.

She decided to end her workout for the day and grabbed her things and glasses out of the locker, looking down at the stuffed cat. What was she ready for? What did that mean? Maybe it was an indication from Frost to J that she had done exactly what he asked? If so, that was true. She had done every task, exactly on time, no matter what it was. Harley smiled down at the cute toy, kissing its forehead. "You're kinda cute."

After a bike ride home and a thorough shower, she got ready for bed and felt less torn. The horrors of the week faded into monotony. I mean, it's Gotham, right? Surely getting a severed hand and knocked out teeth weren't completely uncommon. Besides, both of the victims had been bad guys, and they had deserved to die. In her book, that balanced the ledger of evil in this world.

Harley fell asleep curled up with the kitty, waking at the proper time, dressing and packing up her own lunch. She had her hair curled up into a bun and put a skirt on this time, her outfit impeccable. Now, J would have no reason to tell her that she looked like shit again.

Gotham was experiencing an uncommonly clear day, so she took her bike to work, driving the dark motorcycle up into her spot and enjoying the fresh air. Sometime she liked to make the joke that Gotham was like Forks, Washington with less teenagers, more violence but the same amount of drama. That got a laugh like half the time, so she had quit trying to push.

She got into her office, put his jacket on and started in on another report as well as a journal article. Her endnote library was already filled with references, and she had her fingers crossed that the american journal of psychiatry would accept her submission. A publication from this journal on her resume could get her better pay - if she stuck around here, of course. She had a feeling that the stability of last week (if you could call it that), was quickly beginning to fade.

Mercifully, she was left alone until her time with the Joker, and she went to his room early with her lunch. She'd rather spend it with him instead of in the breakroom, and while there was probably something there to analyze, she let it go.

Harley knocked, seeing him laying back on his bed which was bolted into the wall. She wanted to alert him to her presence before letting herself into his cell. J sat up, smiling.

"What a pleasant surprise."

"I brought lunch," she said, sitting at the table and beginning to unpack a few items. "Probably not up to your tastes, but I figure it's gotta be better than protein mush or whatever the hell it is they feed you guys."

The Joker stood slowly, predatory, and stalked in her direction, placing both of his strong, masculine hands on her thin shoulders. He leaned down until his lips were directly next to her ear, breathing softly. Hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and she shivered. The tip of his nose ran along the curve of her ear, a slender hand sliding up the side of her neck to cup her jaw. "Thank you," he growled, the sound bouncing off of his strong chest and vibrating through her skull.

If it were possible for humans to melt, she would have turned into a liquid and slid down through the slats in her chair.

"You're…. You're… welcome," she stammered, tracking him as he so easily went to sit across from her, a smirk fixed on his handsome features. He picked up a sandwich and took a bite, watching her with some sort of veiled emotion.

Together, they ate in comfortable silence, a skill usually relegated for couples and those who knew each other very well. Harley grabbed a pudding cup and ate it in a similar fashion, licking her fingers clean. His blue eyes never wavered, fixated on her.

"So, Puddin'," she said, smiling. He raised an amused brow at the nickname but otherwise did not protest. "I have something for yah."

"Oh?" he asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Yeah," she grinned, pulling the toy out of the pocket of her lab coat. "I got you your kitty." Harley wagged its paws in his direction, smiling back at him when he bared his teeth in a pleased grin. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes - of something darker and more sinister.

"How _thoughtful,_ " he mused, getting the message from Frost clearly. Their little doctor was ready. She was snared, willing and capable. Soon, he would be getting out of this hellhole and on with his very important and thoroughly enjoyable life.

Another silence lingered between them before he leaned forward, holding her gaze and not letting it go.

"You know…" he trailed, humming.

"Yes?" she asked, mirroring him without realizing exactly what she was doing.

"I need you to do me an itsy, bitsy little...favor…" he hummed, the volume of his voice lowering conspiratorially.

"Anything, I mean yeah...yeah, I can try," she stammered, trying not to sound completely taken by him.

"I need a machine gun," he stated, bluntly and boldly, eyes watching for her reaction.

Harley paused, blinking and trying to think if she had just misunderstood what he said. She thought about what he would do with it and how she would even get it past security. Weapons of any kind were not allowed on this floor, and she had even had her spoon taken away from a guard when she had accidentally left it in her lunchbox. So, how was she supposed to get a massive gun up here and into the hands of Gotham's most feared criminal?

"Mmm... perhaps I should be more specific," he pressed, unphased by her dumbfounded silence. "I need you to accidentally leave the door to the morgue open, and I need you to bring in a few crates of guns in the trunk of your car. Then, you will create a distraction on the first floor, drawing away the guards from their normal routine."

Still, she didn't speak, and he cleared his throat, reaching a hand up in her face and snapping his fingers a few times. "Earth to Harley," he teased, grinning. "Did I lose you?"

"What? No," she muttered, blinking and emerging from her thoughts abruptly when he snapped in her face. "I am here." Harley nervously ran her hand over her hair and took a deep breath. "Look," she began slowly, already feeling guilt when his playful smirk dropped at the utterance of her single word. "I want to, I really do. But, I… I don't know, Mistah J. This is… if I do this, my job, my life? It's all over."

J seemed to struggle for a moment. There was a violence behind his blue eyes, and she wondered if he wanted to hurt her - because that's what it looked like. What eventually won out was calm, and he reached forward to take one of her hands in his, stroking her skin softly with his thumb.

"I know, honey, I know. But I will take care of you. _Trust me_."

Harley nodded, looking down at their tangled hands.

"I can make you whole." He repeated from the other day, and she finally looked up, frowning.

"I need time to think about it," she said finally, tearing herself away from him and flying out the door of his cell before he could react poorly. From the snarling, yelling and crashing emanating from behind her, she had made the right choice.

" _ **DON'T DISAPPOINT ME, HARLEY!**_ " The words echoed down the hall, chasing her as she took the elevator back down to her office.

 _Machine guns._ He was asking her to help him escape. Harley shut her door with the toe of her shoe and paced the small space, trying to think through what she was going to do. A vast majority of her wanted to do exactly as he said. Despite the fact that he was a criminal, she trusted him implicitly. He said he would take care of her and make her whole, and she wanted both more than anything else.

But a smaller part was afraid that this whole, crazy, fucking batshit dream would crash around her ears. She'd be locked up in this place as a patient instead of a doctor, and he'd used her as a scapegoat. Unlikely, maybe, but there was still a small chance. Even if she did manage to escape, what would there be left for her? She'd built her entire life around being a doctor and making herself someone good, and all of that would be thrown away.

She couldn't do it.

Harley drove herself home and tried to drown out the competing voices in her head, fighting her brain's natural inclination to self realize. After enough wine, she had no choice, and the conclusion she came to was haunting.

 _Harleen Quinzel was in love with the Joker._

This wasn't some mushy, sneaky kisses and hand holding kind of love. He wouldn't ask her to move in with him while taking her out to dinner and a movie. She wouldn't post selfies on facebook of "me and bae!" with a thousand heart emojis.

No, this was the type of love where being away from him made her physically ill and the the thought of disappointing him gave her anxiety. Her heart ached when they were distanced and throbbed powerfully when in his presence. This type of love was _obsession, jealousy and possession_. Dysfunctional, powerful and all consuming. No other man would ever compare in her mind to him, and she was _**ruined**_.

But was it enough?

She fell asleep to these thoughts and woke, going about her normal routine. Harley got to her car and felt a chill crawl up her spine, staring at her trunk and knowing what she'd find inside. Bravely, she looked anyway, hearing her breath catch in her throat as she looked down a handfulls of military grade assault weapons.

Now, she had a choice.

She could take her bike, or she could take her car. Harley paced between the two vehicles, audibly groaning and whispering to herself before finally throwing herself at her sedan. Just because she drove it there didn't mean she _had_ to leave the morgue door open, right? Driving with that many guns in her car felt like she was transporting a bomb, and her knuckles were white on her steering wheel.

Harley arrived and went to her office, putting her things down before deciding to speak to Anne Sheridan. She had gone many days without talking to another human being besides J and his lackeys. Maybe simple conversation could inspire some perspective. The doctor knocked and stepped inside, frowning when she saw the newest edition of the American Journal of Psychiatry with the Joker's face on the cover.

Dr. Sheridan tried to snatch it away, but not before Harley had already grabbed it, flipping through until she got to the article titled "The Joker: Classical Psychiatry Explains even Unthinkable Behavior" by Dr. Anne Sheridan. As she skimmed the article, she saw her diagnosis written out in the paragraphs as well as details from her notes. Was this why she has to submit weekly reports?

Rage filled her, a blinding, red hot emotion that burned from her curled toes to her clenched fists. "You stole my notes!" she yelled, blinking as her vision blurred. Were those… her tears? "You… he is my patient, and you... you…" she stammered, feeling her heart pound in her chest and her soul demand blood. "How _**DARE YOU!?**_ " she screamed, curling up the journal and throwing it at Dr. Sheridan who narrowly dodged the attack.

"Now Harleen, be reasonable-"

"Be reasonable?!" she screeched, not bothering to hide her accent anymore. "Be REASONABLE?! HOW do you expect me to do that when you _**STOLE MY NOTES?!**_ YOU PLAGIARIZED ME!" Harley backed out of Anne's office, knowing exactly what she had to do.

Fuck all of them. Every. Last. One. Even the doctors were corrupt, and she didn't belong here. The Joker was more honest than all of these assholes.

Anne followed a few steps. "Harleen! Let's talk about this first!" she called down the hall.

"There's nothing to say," she snarled in response. "Don't you dare follow me, Anne." At least the bitch had the presence of mind to heed her words because Harley was alone when she went down to the morgue and kicked open the door, forcing it wide with a large rock. With tear stained eyes, she looked down at the screen of her phone and texted Frost. "Door open. Be ready in 10."

Harley rolled her shoulders back and looked over at a cart, grabbing a scalpel and marching back upstairs. Frost needed a distracting on the first floor? She would give him a goddamn distraction. Without hesitation, she marched down the hall and straight to Anne's office, kicking down her door violently. The action set off an alarm and other doctors and the nursing staff filled the hallway, watching in horror as their perfect, precious little Harleen turned wicked.

"You fucked with the wrong person, Anne," she growled, lunging at the other doctor from across her desk. Harley tackled the older woman to the ground and held the scalpel to her neck, hands shaking.

"Harleen! Please! You don't have to do this… I'll… I'll call the editor and we can get this solved-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU BITCH! My name is **HARLEY** , and it is FAR TOO LATE for the right decision now." They were both well beyond salvaging this situation. From here on out, there was only bad or worse.

Harley shoved the scalpel against Anne's neck, drawing blood until a loud explosion shook her roughly. The knife blade was pushed into the doctor's neck, severing the major veins and arteries there as evidenced by the gush of blood. Harley dropped the scalpel, scrambling away from the doctor as she gasped for breath, choking on her own blood. She hadn't… she hadn't meant… to?

But she did.

Gunshots resounded on all floors, and she backed out into the hall, coughing from the dust and blinking through the chaos. Men in costume with the guns from her trunk stormed the building, and one of them snatched her from the fray, a hand folding over her mouth and holding her close as she struggled. One of her heels kicked him in the knee, and she bit his hand roughly, screaming as she was dragged steadily downward. "Get the fuck off me!" she yelled, kicking as two more men came to hold her down.

They threw her onto an exam table, large hands restraining her wrists and ankles as she fought. Not until she heard that telltale laugh did she still, and from upside down, she watched J saunter into the room like a prince. He had taken off his shirt, revealing his defined, solid body and multitude of tattoos, and he had a single nitrile glove on his right hand. Her breath caught in her chest, hoping he would be proud… needing his praise.

All of this was for him…

"Are you gunna kill me, Mistah J?" she asked haughtily, looking up into his bright, wicked blue eyes as he bent down over her body. The thought of death was not as bad as she imagined. If she died now, she died helping J escape and her troubles would disappear into the void of darkness.

Dying for him? Why not. She'd already killed for him. The blood of everyone dead at Arkham was on her hands.

"What…?" he asked, confused.

The grin on his face was wider, wilder and completely insane, and he'd never been more attractive to her than at this very moment.

"Oh no, I'm not gunna kill yah. I'm just gunna hurt yah. Really. Really. Bad." He grinned, chuckling evilly as he grabbed the two electrodes from the shock therapy instrument, cranking up the voltage. The two metal halves touched, sparking and humming like powerlines.

"You think so?" she asked, taking a deep breath and finding a place within herself she had not known existed. "Well, I can take it." This place was serenity. The center of the storm. Calm.

He took a belt from a dead man and folded it in half, placing the strips of leather between her teeth. She bit down, prepared for the coming pain and willing to embrace it fully. Harley screamed when the current flew through her brain, scrambling her thoughts and hurting so...badly. Every second was agony, precious and beautiful. The burn was necessary, and she craved the assault against her own mind.

When her body slackened, unable to take anymore of his torture, J removed the electrodes and turned off the machine, cocking his head to the side and running the backs of his fingertips down her perfect cheek. "Take her home, Frost," he hummed, fingering a strand of perfect, blonde hair. "Our doctor has much to think about - if she can."

His hysterical laugh echoed down the empty, bullet ridden hallways - heard by no one but those in his presence. Everyone else?

Dead.


End file.
